


as long as there's permission

by remnantof



Series: genderqueer au [2]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, First Kiss, First Time, Gender Dysphoria, Genderfuck, Genderqueer, Genderqueer Character, Hand Jobs, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remnantof/pseuds/remnantof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nonbinary teen shenanigans at the Tower.  Tim/Jaime, part of an AU where Tim is genderqueer/fluid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as long as there's permission

**Author's Note:**

> Is a direct-ish sequel to "what's in a name."

Tim is already at the tower when Jaime lands on the roof one Wednesday afternoon, hoping no one noticed Blue Beetle flying around with a backpack in both hands. The neighbors have been remodeling for days; he figured the quiet--if not the peace--he needed for his homework could be found on the West coast this time of the week.

Not that Tim isn’t quiet, just. Tim is _distracting_. Scarab alerts him to Tim’s heat signature, moving up the stairs and stopping at his room, then alerts him to the change in his pulse, his rate of breathing. Scarab can be an asshole like that, and of all the things Jaime wasn’t prepared for when he inherited it, the biggest is knowing what it sounds like when an alien symbiote _giggles_. “Shut up,” he mutters, stumbling and dropping his bag on the roof as his armor slithers off and over his skin and leaves him in blue jeans and a t-shirt. There’s a black Reach stripe through the chest. “Yeah, that’s not conspicuous at all.”

He’s supposed to leave the armor on until he gets inside, but. It’s not something he likes to let people see. Especially--

[conspicuous = (elevated vitals + pre-emptive embarrassment) x presence of Drake, Timothy]

“Again, shut up.” He screws up his face, “And don’t call him _Timothy_.”

Scarab snickers again. Jaime doesn’t know why he thought he would find peace or quiet anywhere, when he carries the main source of his aggravation around with him. He’d rather give Milagro a piggyback ride _forever_.

[weight ratio of human child to scarab technology = in my favor]

He’s so not finishing this project today. Tim’s vitals still place him in his room, and maybe the Scarab isn’t _that_ annoying, but. Jaime really wants the excuse to set homework aside and go see him. Talk to him, because if it feels like Tim is only ever half-telling him things, hinting at a _universe_ of shit he won’t talk about, the conversations are always interesting. Tim always leaves him curious, wanting--how much, he isn’t sure. How much makes him blush and try to do something with his hair as he goes downstairs, running his hands through it until he remembers that is something people with actual haircuts can accomplish, not the mess he has on his head.

Maybe he can ask Tim about it, just to get his foot in the door. And Tim will flirt with him a lot better than Jaime will flirt back, and touch it way too many times coming up with an answer, and Jaime will still have no idea what the fuck is going on or what he’s supposed to do about it, but this is fun too. Kind of. At least it makes Tim smile.

[fun like experimental time travel with the toothpaste salesman]

Yeah, pretty much exactly like that.

-

By the time Jaime knocks on his door, Tim has Caroline’s wig and jacket off, but not much else. Tim Drake-Wayne might raise a lot of eyebrows running around San Francisco’s garment district to pick up underwear and heels, but Caroline can throw on a pair of sweatpants and sunglasses and slip through that world unnoticed. Unless she wants to be noticed.

Tim isn’t sure he wants to be noticed now, at the Tower in falsies and makeup. Nudging his desk wakes up the computer, shows him Jaime fussing with a backpack and standing at his door in black and white. “Who is it,” he asks anyway, moving to hover on his own side of the door.

“It’s just Jaime, um. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out before everyone gets here?”

“I--” Everything pulls sideways for a minute: Jaime or the clothes. Jaime’s sudden clumsiness when Tim looks up through his lashes at him, and his shy smile, his easy laugh. Or a bag of lace panties and jeans he’s had on commission for a month, that will fit perfectly. _Perfectly_.

A shiver runs through him. If he could just have both--

But. Falsies in a sports bra and sweatpants. He’s a mess right now, not ready for Jaime as Tim or Caroline, just. Some in between person, a little more real than either of them, but somehow lacking a name.

“Tim?”

“Sure,” he blurts, putting a hand on the door like he’s afraid Jaime will shove his way in. “I just, I need a minute!” Glancing back, he can see Jaime raising a hand, touching the door lightly with his fingertips. His face is hidden by his hair from the high angle; he pulls the hand away. “Tim, are you okay,” he asks, then, when Tim stands there chewing the gloss from his lips instead of answering: “You could tell me, if you weren’t. Right?”

Another shiver. Maybe he can have both, just this once. For an experiment, it’s a bit rushed, but he can see the value in letting Jaime in now. In getting this over with, finding out how much Jaime can handle. If Jaime can’t handle it, Tim thinks, he’s not sure anyone else will. Better to find out what he can have now, what he’ll have to give up later.

He thinks Jaime can handle it.

Hopefully.

“I’m going to open the door,” he says, moving his hand down tot he knob. “If you ever think of telling anyone about this, consider all the painful things I could do to you first, okay?”

For a long time, Jaime just blinks. There’s just nothing on his face, his gaze moving up and down Tim’s body, then around the room. The clothes he bought are laid out on the bed, his makeup bag is on the bathroom counter. He hasn’t had time to wipe the makeup away from his eyes and he crosses his arms under the pink sports bra, tilting his head up stubbornly. The boy he likes is staring right at him, face twitching a few times, then blank again.

Tim is so ready for something ugly to spread over it that Jaime’s smile startles him, makes him blinking and blank for a moment as Jaime steps closer and looks back at the bed again. “Want to show me what you got,” he asks, smile faltering as he looks down and flushes instead, taking that step back. “Or I could, you know, come back later. I didn’t mean to intrude or anything.”

They’re both biting their lip at the same time; he doesn’t think Jaime notices, staring at his shoes. Or maybe at the gold polish on Tim’s bare toenails. Most of it is chipped and faded by now, an experiment he doesn’t repeat often. He doesn’t like looking at his feet. At the long, ugly toes, broken so many times during his training, or early days on the street. The only good thing about them is how small they’ve stayed. He can hide the toes anyway, and he glances back at the bed. At the shoe boxes and blouses, skirts and shirts. Jaime wants to see them. He isn’t grossed out at all. “Sure,” he says, not quite answering until he takes Jaime by the wrist and tugs him into the room. Not giving him much space to get past at all before Tim closes the door. Closes them both in with it.

-

It’s not a verbal admission, but maybe Tim doesn’t do those. He just leaves breadcrumbs in the questions he asks and the answers he gives, leads you to a door and then you just stand outside and hope he’ll open it.

Jaime can’t believe he opened it. Or how--how not scary everything on the other side is. There’s just Tim, a lot softer than Jaime’s ever seen him, this lethal person who goes shopping and gets embarrassed. Who already had the nicest eyes under his mask, but now they stand out even more. Just a little shadow that makes the blue brighter, and all those dark lashes. Jaime still doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s _there_. He gets to see this, and the clothes on the bed, and.

And the panties under his hand on the pillow, slippery microfiber and rough lace that make him pull his hand away and blush. It’s too much all at once, sure Tim’s just wearing a sports bra and sweatpants, that’s. That’s nothing really, he just looks like a chick that could seriously kick Jaime’s ass or run circles around him in the park. But now Jaime has those eyes staring at him, and the underwear on the bed, Tim _wears_ that. Under the skirts and jeans and blouses. Maybe under those sweatpants, right now.

Jaime’s face feels hot, must be red as a tomato; Tim gathers up the underwear with an apology and puts it back into a little black bag.

Tim comes to SoCal and goes _shopping._ Tim likes _clothes_. It’s so astoundingly normal, Jaime doesn’t know how to process it. Nice clothes, too: collared blouses and dark skirts, little slits up the thigh, and that’s not a lot better than the panties, is it? Not when they’re standing on either side of Tim’s bed, and Jaime is just--touching it all. Touching it and imagining, and nobody saying anything. Tim keeps watching him, waiting for something, but Jaime doesn’t know what he wants. The clothes don’t bother Jaime at all, the images--they definitely don’t bother him in a _bad_ way. Just all that silence, all the waiting. He picks up a pencil skirt and looks from it to Tim, giggling. “Tim, how are you supposed to wear this with your little pancake butt?” In sweatpants it’s hard to tell, but Jaime’s seen the tights. Tim has nice legs, but that skinny white-boy butt won’t fill these out at all.

It’s not the nicest thing to say, though. Jaime isn’t bothered by this stuff, but he doesn’t get it either. Tim might totally hate his skinny butt, it might be one more part of his only half-talking about it and not wanting to let Jaime in here. “Sorry--” he starts, starting to put the skirt back down. He’d never tell a girl he liked that her butt is too small, that is just _not smooth_ at all.

[this hypothesis requires a variable of inherent smoothness on your part]

He can’t even argue with _that_. Tim is a lot smoother, tilting his head and looking down his nose at Jaime, narrow through those lashes. It makes him flush all over before Tim even opens his mouth, staring a challenge across the bed at him: “So it would look better on you?” It takes a minute, a long, nervous, sweaty moment to appreciate that Tim is complimenting his butt without even using the words. That is so unfair. All of it is pretty unfair, making Jaime shiver and sweat, helplessly excited. This is so private, it’s--it’s _intimate_ , and there’s a bag of sexy underwear next to the bed and a stupid, sexy person on the other side of the bed, staring him down over a skirt. Jaime isn’t sure how this could be anything but sexual, how he’s supposed to do anything but bite his lip and lay the skirt down in front of him. Open his jeans and shove them down, staring back. “Yeah, I bet it would.”

The corner of Tim’s mouth curls up, then the other when Jaime falters, flushes and tells Tim to turn around. It’s all worth it for the way Tim laughs as he moves, folding his arms up and waiting. Long, lean arms and his shoulders sliding right up into his neck. Dark hair just a little too long at the nape, sweat separating it into little curls, and the muscle and bone just under his skin, divided up by the pink racer-back bra. Jaime can see the clasps, could reach out and snap a strap or unhook it, but his hands are busy, hurrying his clothes down off his legs and up over his head. Tim asked him once, what he’d do if the Scarab was a girl, if it only made clothes like this for him. Like the skirt clinging to his thighs and the thin blouse clinging to his shoulders. He said he’d do it anyway, because the Scarab also lets him help people, but.

God, he’d be hard forever, and the skirt doesn’t hide a thing. The zipper in the back won’t close all the way, and he doesn’t force it, hopes it doesn’t ruin this for Tim somehow. He can’t even speak, just clear his dry throat and swallow when Tim turns to look. Maybe this is how he felt answering the door: on display, waiting for a reaction. Hoping for a good one.

Plus or minus an erection, Jaime thinks, flushing and looking down. Yup, there it is, but _God_ , he can’t help it. Especially when Tim tells him to turn around, and when he looks back, Tim is crawling across the bed. “You were right,” he says, as Jaime completes the turn and lets Tim put his arms around his waist, move his hands down over Jaime’s ass in the skirt and that is one more unfair thing, doing that and letting Jaime make an embarrassing, helpless noise before Tim kisses him.

-

Their hands are shaky but everywhere, don’t know where to stop. Don’t want to stop. Jaime moans and Tim answers, tugging at Jaime’s ass and biting the stubble on his jaw until Jaime does it again. Jaime can handle this, Jaime can: he’s sliding his hands up to Tim’s tits like he forgot they aren’t real or he doesn’t _care_ , brushing his thumbs against the pink cotton and kissing and kissing, biting Tim’s throat in retaliation. Jaime can handle this, they can--Tim isn’t so sure about himself. He’s so _hard_ , had to fold his arms up and not just. Just _touch_ himself when he turned around, heard Jaime getting dressed. He’s hard and it’s wrong but it isn’t, not the way--it’s not like Stephanie and Cassie, because Jaime’s hard too, letting Tim drag him in by the hips and feel it through the skirt and sweatpants. And Jaime can feel him, crawling onto the bed and gripping Tim’s shoulders, kneeling with him on the rest of the clothes.

There’s no time for doubt with the chemical drumbeat in his temples, pounding in his ears: want want want and Jaime gathering him up. Groping his skinny pancake butt through the sweats, then, shaking and forward, shaking from their own forwardness: pushing under the sweats to grope through satin. The sound Jaime makes is high and broken; Tim rocks back into his hands and pants against his mouth. He probably decided to do this when he opened the door: it doesn’t feel unnatural to be on the bed with Jaime, spreading his legs just so and arching into every touch. It doesn’t feel unnatural to sneak a hand between their bodies and grope Jaime’s dick through his skirt. Through _Tim’s_ skirt, Tim’s clothes on Jaime’s body and he likes it, they like it. Jaime fucking loves it, biting Tim’s lip against a helpless hiccup of sound and moving his hips. Finding his voice to say please, please.

Asking, but his hands want to give: gripping the hem of Tim’s sweatpants so Tim can shift out of them. So Jaime can turn this thing on its head, rubbing Tim through his panties and it’s--it’s so good. It’s so _good_. Tim pulls his face back and stares, doesn’t have it in him to say no, or explain why he’d want to. Why he’s afraid of that hand. Maybe he doesn’t have to. “I’m not expecting anything,” Jaime says, his hand slowing, then stopping, then moving back to Tim’s hip. Easing him away from it to ease him back into it.

“But you’d prefer it, right? You like girls--”

“I like _you_.” Tim just keeps staring, letting it sink in. Letting that chemical beat start up again, hitting him. Making him want to kiss Jaime over and over, squeeze his hips in that skirt. Jaime slips his hand down again, just stroking, groping through the fabric. Muting the feel of his hand against Tim’s cock, further back grazing his balls with the heel of his hand, the head. Just tucked in and aching, and Tim lets himself grind into the touch with short cries until he can’t take it anymore. Jaime feeling out the shape of it and squeezing, Tim wants to kick him but finds the words instead, “Take it off, I need--take it _off_.” Jaime holds his throat with one hand and crushes their mouths together, distracting them while his other hand tugs the panties down, frees Tim’s dick and curls around it. “Just do it,” he gasps, Jaime jacking him and him fucking Jaime’s hand, hard and fast before he can overthink it, before it can feel anything but good. Jaime’s hand on him and Jaime’s mouth, and panties soaked with sweat and precome stretched around his thighs. Jaime’s sweat sticking the blouse to his back when Tim runs his hands up, around, into his hair. Clutching and pulling as he comes, blowing humid breaths against Jaime’s face and sobbing. Getting the softest kisses on his cheeks and eyes as he pants and moves his hips, shuddering through it, groaning and trying to catch his breath.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s Jaime, planting a short, smacking kiss on his lips and all it takes is that smile to set things off again. Those cap sleeves stretch tighter around Jaime’s arms, but Tim still outmatches him, shoves him cheerfully back into the pillows, grinning down at him in a way that makes Jaime grin back and shiver. His dick shoving at the fabric of that skirt is obscene, but not the way Tim would think his own is. It’s just _hot_ , it’s Jaime wanting him, wanting this, exactly the way it is. Wanting the makeup and sports bra and panties, wanting the way Tim folds the skirt up as neatly as he can and tears Jaime’s briefs down. The licked clean lips wrapping around his cock and sucking down, made-up eyes looking up. Hands stroking up his sides, untucking the blouse and shoving it up to touch the skin. Scratching through the trail of hair rising out of the skirt, scratching through the hair on his thighs, things that are masculine on him but maybe, maybe just _aren’t_ on Tim, or don’t have to be. Maybe a cock is just a cock, doesn’t have to mean one or the other. Just something that feels good in his mouth, filling him up with that taste and making Jaime pet and pull his hair, making Jaime lean back against the pillows and moan. The sound isn’t that different at all, just lower, from Stephanie grabbing the headboard and shoving her hips up against his face, from Cassie riding it. If a mouth can just be a mouth--

Jaime bucks and whines, forces an answering whine from Tim’s throat. “Tim, Tim--” he can’t feel it on his skin but the words push through him anyway, make him pop off and jerk him a little, closer, closer, then back down, aim it down his throat and swallow as much as he can. He’ll readily admit it’s just to save his clothes. Once his mouth is free, anyway.

-

Intensity doesn’t make it any later when they finish, when Tim pulls away and wipes his mouth on his arm, drawing one last groan from Jaime’s throat. He guesses this is cuddling, with the blouse pulled off and thrown to the floor, the skirt still folded up around his waist. Tim just doesn’t understand it the way Jaime does, because in Jaime’s experience, the cuddling part is when you stop groping someone’s butt.

Tim is just jealous, he decides, and he’s going to tease him about it later. When he’s not touching it. When they’re not in Tim’s bed, staying close because there’s still plenty of time for things like homework and flights home. Still plenty of time to not think about home or parents or what the fuck he is going to tell them. If he’s going to tell them.

But of course he’ll have to. Of course he wants to, eventually, because Tim is ridiculous and beautiful and let Jaime see it, finally. He just has to figure this out, like time travel or aliens. If Tim wants him to. “Um,” he says, rolling back so Tim will stop doing distracting things with his hands. “Is there something I should call you other than Tim? And like, at what times?”

Tim doesn’t answer at first. Jaime thinks he’s blown it, thinks, of course he blew it. Tim is still a person, who probably would rather hear how amazing they were and Jaime’s profuse thanks for the attention just paid to his dick, which, _yes_. But if Jaime gets a next time, he doesn’t want to fuck it up calling the wrong name. “Sorry, um--”

Tim leans down and kisses him, softly, sweetly. More like the way Jaime thought it would be the first time they kissed, though he doesn’t know why. Maybe if they were _thirteen_. When he pulls away, he’s smiling, and it’s okay if it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re still amazing, even when they’re sad. “I’ll let you know.”


End file.
